


Right behind you

by lobstergirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Disease, M/M, Not A Happy Ending, Suicide, dying, letting go, saying goodbye
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 22:57:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/997908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lobstergirl/pseuds/lobstergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end, it wasn’t an assassination attempt that brought the mighty Mycroft Holmes down.  It wasn’t a suicide bomber, either, nor was it a dramatic plane crash.  In the end, it was a mole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Right behind you

**Author's Note:**

> CAREFUL: this is not a happy fic, and there is no happy ending, either. It's about disease and dying and saying good-bye and letting go. It's pretty dark if you lean towards a more fluffy perspective, but if you've ever been remotely close, then you'll know what I'm talking about. 

In the end, it wasn’t an assassination attempt that brought the mighty Mycroft Holmes down.  It wasn’t a suicide bomber, either, nor was it a dramatic plane crash.  In the end, it was a mole.

Not the kind of mole that overthrows governments or intelligence units by playing cunning games or employing clever political tactics.  That would have been obvious and deducible.  Warm-up exercise for a Holmes.  Dull.  No, it was the kind of mole that hides in plain sight, amongst the freckles of a pale torso.  Unremarkable, unnoticed.  When it was noticed and identified, it was too late, and no power, no influence, not anything was able to reverse the events it had set in motion.

******

They had talked about this, of course they had.  Well, maybe not precisely about this, but about _it_.  Whatever Mycroft Holmes actually did for a living, one could assume a certain risk was involved.  And a homicide Detective Inspector’s life wasn’t a mere desk job either, although paperwork seemed overwhelming at times.  Lestrade had seen his share of death, in fact, he had seen enough to last more than a lifetime.  So had Mycroft.

Their relationship had begun slowly, carved out of something that had started as a business connection of sorts, based on the mission to keep a certain consulting detective out of harm’s way, and over the years the business connection had become a friendship that had eventually turned into a relationship of an intensity that neither of them had expected for themselves, hadn't dared dream of.

Had they been of a more romantic nature or metaphysically inclined, the term ‘soulmates’ might have sprung to mind.  As it was, one of them was a pragmatic, hands-on police officer, and the other was, well, a Holmes.  Still both agreed it all boiled down to _You and me. Always._ , and they knew that the moment one heart stopped beating, the other would, too.  There were no fierce pleas of ‘Don’t mourn for me’ or desperate urgings of ‘I would want you to live your life’. 

They would grow old together, or not at all. 

_Where you go, I’ll follow. No matter where. I’ll be right behind you._

Certain arrangements were agreed on and put into writing, and one day, Mycroft brought home four tiny boxes that held one capsule each.  One of these boxes they carried on them at all times, the other two were back-up, safely locked away.  Lestrade didn’t ask questions, Mycroft didn’t provide answers.  They looked into each other’s eyes and that was that.

******

It was painful to watch Sherlock and Mycroft say their goodbyes.  They didn’t actually speak all that much, but an entire conversation was carried out in their very own Holmes speech that seemed to consist of looks and eyebrow-raising and corners of their mouths quirking.  Then Sherlock took his brother’s hands and brought them to his lips.  Mycroft’s eyes widened and Sherlock gave a shaky little smile.  He stood up, turned, nodded to Lestrade and strode out of the room without looking back.  John rose to follow him and placed a gentle hand on Mycroft’s shoulder.

“Goodbye, Mycroft.”

When John Watson and Greg Lestrade looked at each other, ex-soldier and policeman, Lestrade knew that John knew.  Sherlock might suspect, but John knew.  He gave a crisp, military nod that was answered in the same way, turned briskly and left, too.

Lestrade slipped out of his shoes and slid into bed next to Mycroft so they lay facing each other, Lestrade’s arms strong and solid around Mycroft’s body, and they started whispering.

_Remember?  
Remember?_

Only the good memories.  Not the childish fights over somebody never cleaning up after himself, or over somebody else’s urge to put everything into alphabetical order.  Nothing about the over-use of foul language or the ridiculous Holmesian sock index.  Instead, they whispered about their first trip to Paris where all they ended up seeing was their hotel room and all they ended up tasting was each other.  Their first awkward kiss.  The first time they had made love.  The first time Mycroft had come so hard he had actually screamed out loud.  Lestrade had been smug about that for weeks.  The first time Mycroft had taken Lestrade to a symphony and the sheer beauty of the music had brought tears to the hardened Detective Inspector’s eyes.  And had Mycroft ever been smug about that.

They had been given five years with each other.  Five precious years of love and companionship.  Five years was too short, and yet, it was plenty, and it was beautiful.  And in the end, fate was merciful in all of her cruelty.  No prolonged suffering, no slow deterioration of body and mind.  Mycroft was spared the indignity of falling apart before Lestrade, becoming a helpless burden, not being able to care for himself anymore, and Lestrade was spared the pain of seeing his brilliant lover turn into a vegetable, his magnificent brain turning into mush, was spared witnessing Mycroft’s elegant body shrivel up.  It was quick, but there was time enough.

_Remember?  
Remember?_

Then Mycroft was too weak to even whisper and his breath became shallow.  Lestrade kept talking, his voice hoarse from tears he wouldn’t cry, until those sharp blue-and-grey eyes opened for one last time, unseeing but still focussed in a strange way, as if they were straining to imprint the image of a face they had loved to look at more than anything else.  Lestrade leaned in and kissed the beautiful straight-lipped mouth.

“I’ll be seeing you, my love.”

One final breath, stuttering on the inhale, long, so very long on the exhale, and Lestrade’s heart broke.  He felt it, and he heard it, too.  It was a small sound, nothing earth-shattering, but there it was, like a leaf snapping off a twig.

He slipped out of bed to place an envelope on the bedside table.  In it, instructions in Mycroft’s neat handwriting and his own untidy scrawl, and the remaining three capsules.  Then he sent a final text to the ever amazing Anthea that consisted of one word only.  _Now_.  That text would set quite a few things in motion, starting with Anthea opening a handwritten letter addressed to her and labelled “For your eyes only”, three more being delivered to Sherlock, John and, yes, to Sergeant Sally Donovan, and Anthea would make sure Mycroft’s and his wishes would be carried out to a dot, no deviation, no discussions.  Such luxury, providing such peace of mind.  Wonderful Anthea.

The tiny box was fished out of his breast pocket and the capsule was placed under his tongue.  He slipped back into bed and curled himself around his lover’s tall frame for the very last time, intertwining their fingers, holding him close.

Then he bit down.

_Right behind you, beloved. Always._


End file.
